We awoke with excitement to see Sanssouci, which was the soulful creation of Prussia's greatest leader: King Frederick the Great. Its gardens and palaces are a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and Frederick's former home looks like this...
After juice and tea in our hotel room, Lewis and I got to the Central Station, where we intended to eat breakfast.
Unlike the main stations in Amsterdam, Paris, and London, it was mostly filled with Fast Food eateries and American chain-brands, such as McDonald's and Starbucks. It lacked healthy options. Strangely, there is no Food Court; eateries are spread all over, which makes it difficult to browse.
One cozy-looking place had lackadaisical servers who didn't care that anybody might have a train to catch. After four minutes, nobody came to our table, and the man who told us to "sit anywhere" still remained at his counter, looking bored. We left.
That exploration wasted 15 minutes of our time. Two healthy-choice eateries existed, but one was Vapiano: a pasta place. We rode down the escalators again and opted for seafood sandwiches and cider at Dean & David.
We do not recommend eating at the Central Station.
Next, we realized the dismal location of Departure Signs inside the station. They are not located beside the stairs to each platform. They are all the way down on the main level, near the entrances. That is idiotic. We rushed downstairs to see which track contained the next train to the City of Potsdam. Then, we hurried up through two levels.
*The Departure Screen mentioned "Track 12: E, F, G". We didn't know what the letters signified, but we saw them on the platform and assumed it meant that the train cars that aligned with them would align with the station in Potsdam. That wasn't true, so we remain unsure what the letters signify.
Using our Transit Passes, we got aboard the next RE1 (regional) train to Potsdam. It was a double-decker train that was full. We waited for crowds to exit at the zoo, and then we finally got seats.
As our day-trip commenced, a conductor inspected our tickets and spoke in German, but we didn't understand her. After she heard us speak in English, she shrugged and proceeded onward. So did the train.
Within thirty minutes, we arrived in the City of Potsdam.
Founded in 1776 (while German troops from Hesse were hired to fight against American patriots), it is the capital of the Province of Brandenburg.
People recognize the name Brandenburg from Johan Sebastian Bach's concertos, circa 1721. I love those. In 2015, Lewis and I watched the Paul Taylor Dance Company perform Brandenburgs, which was an interpretation of Jerome Robbins' 1997 ballet named Brandenburg, set to Bach's music. Seen below, the woodsy-green costumes resembled German tracht suspenders and shorts.
Brandenburg touches Poland and three German states: Saxony, Saxony-Anhalt, and Lower Saxon. (During the 400s, a Germanic clan named the Saxons emigrated to the British Isles and conquered England. The term “Anglo-Saxon” is still used, and the mascots of my university were the knightly Saxons, as quoted below).
*To see my amazing university experiences, please use this link:
https://halfwindsorfullthrottle.blogspot.com/2013/05/college-memories.html
Brandenburg was first inhabited by polytheistic Slavic clans in the 600s. Potsdam is an old Slavic term for "beneath the oaks". 300 years later, King Henry the Fowler (an enthusiast of waterfowl) created the basis of medieval Germany. In 948, Emperor Otto appointed a margrave to rule it. (Equivalent to a marquis, a margrave had sovereignty to maintain land along the imperial borders). Margraves had impressive names like Albert the Bear and Valdemar the Great. After 1320, they were born from the House of Wittelsbach (currently headed by the gay 89-year-old Duke of Bavaria), then King Wenceslaus of Bohemia (whom a Christmas carol is named for), and then from the House of Hohenzollern (which is currently headed by 46-year-old Georg Friedrich Prinz von Preußen [Prince of Prussia]: the great-great-grandson of Germany’s last monarch).
Centuries ago, Prussian kings built their summer palaces in Potsdam. German emperors copied them. Despite two World Wars, the Great Depression, the Cold War, and invasions by various militants, the palaces are perfectly preserved. The city is quaintly picturesque and well-maintained.
Our destination was Sanssouci Park, where the palaces are. Therefore, we bypassed Potsdam's Central Station and exited at Potsdam Charlottenhof Station. It looks like this: a neglected and dilapidated mess—unfit for an international tourist spot, and reminiscent of an Amtrak station in the uncaring USA...
There was an absence of signs to find Sanssouci Park, so I navigated with my iPhone. Nothing indicates that you are within proximity to the great historical monuments. Trams paused at the station, but we couldn't decipher the list of their stops to determine if they went to Sanssouci. Once again, there were no maps, which would be useful to foreign visitors. None of the stops on the list made a simple statement of "Sanssouci". That was unhelpful.
Not wanting to be taken in the wrong direction (as happened to us several times yesterday), we decided to walk. Incorrectly, we figured that most Germans (as bio-friendly Europeans) walked to their destinations. Not in Potsdam. There is an absence of pedestrian signage.
Trekking north, we admired the pretty scenery.
Hidden between two modest-looking buildings, a frail gate is the entrance to the park. A small sign is the only indication that you can walk through it toward Schloss Sanssouci (Sanssouci Palace).
Evidently, most tourists are expected to arrive by car at the parking lot on the north side of the park.
The palace was created by Frederick the Great: the greatest monarch in Prussia/Germany's history. He was openly gay. In 1712, he was born in the Berlin Palace to Prussia's second king, and he was the crown-prince among nine siblings. His monstrous father demonstrated a "Napoleon complex" to compensate for his petit size with cruelty, militarism, and a regiment of extra-tall soldiers whom he named the Potsdam Giants. (He made them march around his bed, and he sketched their appearances to amuse himself). That cruel man was the son of Queen Charlotte, whose castle we saw yesterday. He often beat his children into submission, and his fragile temper caused his Hanover-born wife to detest him.
As a youngster, Frederick had a partiality for intelligent thinking. He befriended his older sister, Wilhelmine. In 1728, at age 16, he began an intimate relationship with a 17-year-old page-boy who worked for his father. The frolicking teenagers did not comply with the king's ultra-masculine vibe, and he hated their effeminate tendencies. As punishment, the page was forced to fight in the army at the Dutch border. Next, Frederick sparked a romance with Hans Hermann von Katte: a 26-year-old nobleman and army lieutenant who tutored him. To retaliate with vengeance, the king sentenced Katte to death, and made his son watch the beheading.
In defiance, Frederick plotted with his older sister to flee to England, where his maternal uncle was King George II (seen below).
Unfortunately, his father's spies stopped him. When the king discovered that Wilhelmine helped Frederick, he beat her until she almost died! To avoid more pain for himself and his family, Frederick applied himself to his father's teachings of militarism. He became an elite tactician and army officer. Those years taught him that foresight was important when fighting enemies, so he envisioned everything before it happened and could maneuver to corner them. Yet, he remained true to his inner self and his instincts. Briefly in 1739, he met a bisexual Venetian, named Francesco Algarotti, and wrote a poem to him about orgasms. Their infatuation was short-lived. During his studies, Frederick started another relationship with Michael Gabriel Fredersdorf (seen below), who was four years older.
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As a lover, Fredersdorf kept him steady and well-cared-for. They successfully concealed their love. For young Prince Frederick, being involved with such a man must've been like being touched by an angel savior...
At age 21, Frederick was compelled to get married, and his 18-year-old wife seemed to understand his sexual preference. They had a long marriage—contentedly separated. Her name was Elisabeth, and she was the crown-princess in the Duchy of Brunswick-Luneburg.
In 1736, the newlyweds occupied Rheinsberg Palace, 100-kilometers away from Berlin, and the prince paid his male lover to be his valet. In 1740, Frederick's father died, and Frederick ascended the throne as a 28-year-old "absolute monarch". As the new king, he promoted his lover to being his chamberlain and the director of the royal theatre in Berlin. When Frederick built Sanssouci, the men had adjoining bedrooms. In 1789, Sanssouci's head-gardener wrote that the chamberlain was the king's "chamber lover". Meanwhile, his wife stayed in Berlin and enjoyed being Queen of Prussia while presiding over the courtiers and managing the frivolous etiquette of the nobility. She reunited with Frederick for birthdays and national events.
For 50 years, Frederick was a "flirty friend" with the French philosopher, Voltaire, and that man lived temporarily at Sanssouci. A "lover's quarrel" caused him to leave—but after Frederick's troops burned his incriminating poems.
Frederick preferred intense conversation, smart thinking, building things, the arts, performing music, gardening, and military conquests. Thanks to his reign in the 1740s, Prussia made scientific breakthroughs in canon accuracy and gunnery. As such, he reminded Lewis and I of King Louis XIV's brother, Philippe: a fashionable gay man who partied hard but fought superbly as a warrior. Others consider Frederick as the inspiration for The Scarlet Pimpernel, which standardized superheroes: a foppish playboy who is a clever vigilante.
Women were rarely invited to Sanssouci; it was a haven for male intellectuals, composers, strategists, and director of public works.
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Lewis and I valued the significance in the palace's name. In French, Sanssouci means "without a care". King Frederick II earned his nickname "The Great" because he annexed land for Prussia and greatly increased its military prowess with astounding victories on battlefields. He repelled encroachers, capitalized commerce, thwarted conspiracies from the Austrian and Russian empires, and enlarged his kingdom's status as a European Power. (As I mentioned earlier, only two generations previously, Prussia was backwardly rustic and "unpolished"). He also abolished judicial torture.
He modernized Prussia's government and civil service—allowing commoners to become judges and bureaucrats. During his reign, Prussia's education system had some of the best schools in Europe. He encouraged religious tolerance, and he instituted "freedom of the press". He invited immigrants to live in Prussia, and his administrative efficiency was a model of "German standards" for centuries. He tripled his realm's food supply by creating 150,000 acres of farmland by draining Germany's swamps.
His army benefited from his theories on tactics, mobility, and logistics. He was nicknamed "The Soldier King". Years later, Napoleon Bonaparte considered him as a worshipful military commander. Even the Nazi dictator, Adolph Hitler, idolized him (but obscured his homosexuality).
Frederick remains relevant in the modern era, and comics and cartoons highlight his romances for today's youth.
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America's Founding Fathers were helped a lot by European nobility and homosexuals. Gilbert du Motier, the wealthy Marquis de Lafayette was a courtier of King Louis XVI and came to America in 1777 to help the colonial Americans. As a Major General in the Continental Army, he earned a father/son friendship with its Commander-in-Chief: George Washington. A street is named after him in Manhattan, and Lafayette Park is in front of the White House. Both men were friends with Baron Friedrich von Steuben, a Prussian general from the Seven Years War. He joined the army at age 16. By age 31, he served as aide-de-camp to Frederick the Great, and he did not conceal his homosexuality. Benjamin Franklin hired the gay baron as the Inspector-General for Washington's army, and he was paired with Alexander Hamilton. His "Blue Book" manual stayed with the American Army for a century!
The baron arrived in Valley Forge with servants hired in Boston (by John Hancock), a French cook, and his military secretary from France: a 17-year-old named Pierre Du Ponceau. Wearing his jeweled medal to signify his knighthood, he was appalled by Washington’s troops. With almost prophetic accuracy, the Americans repeatedly squandered their funds, had indifference to proper behavior, and lacked simple sanitary precautions. Unafraid of doing tasks beneath his rank, the general acted as a drill-sergeant. Unable to speak English, he demonstrated maneuvers and his aides translated. He corrected the internal theft of supplies and improved American firepower. He was disgusted by Congressional denials to give him financial rewards or travel expenses, while Congress embezzled wartime donations from France. Nonetheless, he sharpened the ragtag army.
He shared a lifelong relationship with Englishman named Captain Benjamin Walker, who became his aide-de-camp. Von Steuben hoped to be honorably compensated. But—as it did later with immigrants lured by the Statue of Liberty—America took his labor and kept the profits. He was paid one-eighth of what he was owed. Begrudgingly, the U.S. government gave him a battle-torn farm that was confiscated from a British loyalist. He sold it. Washington rewarded him with an estate near his own in Mount Vernon, NY. There, the baron was "cozy" with two younger men: Captain Walker and Brigadier General William North. They all lived together, and the baron adopted them to avoid suspicion. *Nowadays, a county in New York is named for him and annual Von Steuben Parades occur in NYC and Chicago (featured in the iconic film Ferris Bueller's Day Off) to celebrate German-American heritage.
*To learn other startling tidbits of the American Revolution, please use this link:
https://halfwindsorfullthrottle.blogspot.com/2022/07/correcting-july-4.html
Ben Franklin also recruited a Polish nobleman, Casimir Pulaski, who reformed the American Cavalry and saved Washington's life during the Battle of Brandywine. He and the marquis were lifelong friends. Franklin also hired a Hungarian nobleman, Michael Kovats de Fabriczy, who served Frederick the Great as captain of the Prussian Cavalry. Frederick's influence was far-flung! That's amazing!
Despite his king-sized devotion to duty, Frederick the Great gladly spent his time at his beloved Sanssouci. Every detail was an expression of himself. As a admirer of the beginnings of Versailles (before its wretched implosion of decadence), he styled his palace along some of its Baroque precepts. Below, he was painted with the Marquis d'Argens, as they inspected its construction. (The marquis was a critic of the Catholic Church, so the Kingdom of France exiled him. In 1742, Frederick appointed him as his Royal Chamberlain in Berlin and the Director of the Berlin State Opera).
As we moved further in, we encountered other visitors using the paths. After a bend in the path, we saw the palace—centered in an allée of trees. Before Frederick inherited the land, it was his father's hunting ground for pheasants and partridges.
Like a pair of adventurers, we crossed a brook, and I noticed that the bridge railings featured mythological sea creatures.
We walked around a circular reflecting pool; its fountain was dormant for the upcoming winter.
Frederick copied it from Versailles, but the fountain didn't function during his lifetime because his engineers couldn't replicate the hydraulics. This is his initial drawing of it...
The king constructed a water tank on the hill behind his palace, to supply the park's water features, and he decorated it as if it was an artificial Roman ruin. (A century later, King Friedrich Wilhelm IV used a newfangled steam engine to make the fountain spurt).
Around the fountain, the king placed statues of polytheistic Roman gods and goddesses: Venus, the goddess of sex and desire; Mercury, the god of commerce and eloquence; Apollo, the god of music and dance; Juno, the goddess of governance; Minerva, the goddess of justice and victory; et cetera. Versailles' owner at that time, King Louis XV, was flattered by Frederick's admiration, so he gifted him a set of allegorical statues of the Four Elements: Fire, Water, Air, and Earth. During the colder months, the statues are protectively enclosed in wooden boxes, so we didn't see most of them.
Throughout the year, the topiaries and carefully-trimmed and shaped perfectly.
As Lewis and I reached the upper steps, the palace stretched before us. It was built in 1745. Please enjoy Lewis' panoramic video of the scene...
We ascended six staircases that led up through the tiered vineyard. Frederick tried to grow grapes for winemaking but the climate wasn't suitable. As a lover of fresh fruit, he continued to grow grapes that were perfect for eating. The vines still bear fruit. Alternating between the vines, he cultivated fig trees, which were enclosed in green gates.
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Frederick painted his Rococo-style residence with a vibrant yellow color. (After the heavier themes of Baroque style, Rococo style provided opulent playfulness and grace). His architect was Georg Wenzeslaus von Knobelsdorff, whom he paid to visit Paris and Italy for inspiration (the same fellow who designed the East Wing at Charlottenburg Palace). Some people call its style Frederician Rococo. Made of sandstone, carved figures act as pillars and depict companions of Bacchus: the ancient Roman god of winemaking and vegetation.
As seen on the gazebo above, King Frederick considered himself "Great" as an enlightened ruler. He brightened his nation after his father's bleak darkness, and he demonstrated that with many emblems of the sun. Perhaps Frederick learned that tactic from France's Louis XIV: the "Sun King".
Seen below, we noticed a tall windmill. Built in 1738, the first one pre-existed the palace, but Frederick kept it because he liked having freshly-milled/baked bread. Then, he replaced it with a Dutch model in 1787. Unlike other monarchs, he was not concerned about having a "task structure" near his palace. Instead, the pragmatic ruler kept it, and it contributed to his carefree aristocratic life.
It was near the public lavatory, which Lewis wanted to use. Reminding us of France, it was the first of several German public lavatories that charged money from the users. All of the lavatories at Sanssouci Park have a cost to use them, and only cash is accepted. In fact, coins were expected—not paper Euros. That was not indicated on its webpage, nor on our admission tickets, nor on the signage that we saw when we entered. Many visitors lacked cash and were not allowed to use the lavatory! I saw one person give some coins to another, so she could enter. It is absurd that the park's agency fails to warn tourists—who might arrive in Berlin and go there before doing a currency exchange to obtain cash. Mercifully, there is no designated price, but users must put something into the "money box". An attendant was there to supervise it.
While Lewis used the lavatory, I admired the colonnade behind the palace. Created as the front entrance, it was a cour d'honneur. It overlooked a valley, and I saw sheep grazing.
Each of our tickets for the entire park cost €19.00. The website explicitly stated that a pre-set time-slot is needed to enter Sanssouci Palace... but not for the New Palace on the other side of the park. You can see it here; click it to make it bigger...
That scenario was confirmed by eight travel blogs and videos that I checked. However, the official website was inaccurate for the New Palace, and I'll describe that later. Relying on the official information, we opted for the early 10:30 AM time-slot at Sanssouci Palace, so we had an unscheduled agenda for the rest of our visit. We arrived at the front of the queue at 10:25. Only five people joined the queue behind us. The docent waited until 10:30.
The foyer is grand!
Upon entering the glorious building, it seems evident that a gay man lived there: a statue of a nude muscular man is the first thing that you see. That reminded us of visiting the former palaces of homosexual noblemen in Italy.
Passing through a stately Gallery, we noticed the narrowness of the seats, as seen below.
Please enjoy Lewis' video of that interior...
Fashioned by a Swede named Johann Harper, the ceiling was one of many amazing ones! It seemed to "drip" with gold appliqué. Frederick favored that style, and those flourishes seem like his trademark in the buildings that he commissioned.
High overhead, Lewis noticed a single vase on a gilded shelf. It's the only one in the entire corridor. Perhaps people forgot to remove it? You can see it in my next photo...
Behind Frederick's Study/Bedroom, a curved corridor belied the entrance to his private Library. Many tourists passed it without knowing. Being observant and curious, Lewis and I peered inside (through a glass wall) and marveled at its handsome splendor. The circular room was bright, airy, paneled with cedar wood (I liked the alcoved bookcases), and accented with wisps of gold-leaf. Another image of the sun was emblazoned on the colorful ceiling.
Expressing attention-to-detail, the ceilings are stunning. They encourage you to raise your eyes upward. No detail is spared.
Next, we entered the king's bedroom, which had his study (office). It was used for countless things pertaining to the kingdom. Frederick died there in an armchair.
He used Rococo style to provide whimsical elements that corresponded with the uses of each room.
The adjoining chamber was the mirrored Music Room, which was adorned with fanciful gilding: every portion had something to admire.
As Lewis and I stood in the Music Room, we suddenly recalled that it was famously painted by Adolph Menzel, and the room looked unchanged. Amazingly, the chandeliers, walls, floor, furnishings, and music stand are original! Despite Napoleon's invasion, two World Wars, postwar Occupation, and the Cold War, everything was perfectly preserved.
As I mentioned in the previous segment, Frederick was a music-lover and a talented flutist. With his favorite flute at his lips, he created daily tributes of sweet harmony to the Universe. Onlookers described him as having "sparkling eyes and a cheerful quiet peace that radiated from his joyful countenance."
Filled with awe and a "palpable connection to history", we segued to the next chamber. In my photo below, can you see the art theft? Ha ha!
From there, we moved to the oval-shaped Marble Hall, which was used as a ballroom for celebrations. Appropriately, it overlooks the garden. Sunshine made the chandeliers sparkle. Effervescence was depicted everywhere!
When friends gathered around him, they remarked that the palace was a true portrait of Frederick: a temple where he created art, science, infrastructure, defense, diplomacy, bounty, and friendship.
Frederick's fascination with growing grapes is symbolized in many interior places.
The ballroom is crowned by a cupola that brightens the Carrara marble from Italy. Encircling the base of the dome, statues depict Grecian deities: Urania, the goddess of Nature, Apollo, the god of the arts, et cetera. They were carved by a 35-year-old French sculptor named Francois Gaspard Adam.
We remained awed with how Frederick cleverly brought Nature and wildlife indoors amidst the decorating embellishments.
We progressed into the Voltaire Room, which Frederick designated for that author from 1750 until 1753. Adorned with three-dimensional wood-carved flowers, it is breathtaking!
Here is Lewis' video that shows their angular depth...
Unusual for the 18th-century, the overlay on the mirror seems "ahead of its time" as a precursor to Art Nouveau of the 1910s, as seen below. Frederick sketched its design. That is genius.
Seen below, the three-dimensional blooms, leaves, and vines dangle down from the ceiling, resembling real plants!
That squirrel was cute, so Lewis made a video of it...
Beauty abounds everywhere at Sanssouci, including the handles of window shutters in the servants' rooms.
Exiting from the servants' hall, we relished the sunny autumn beauty that surrounded the palace.
Frederick desired a one-level palace, so he had access to his garden from any doorway. Disliking the grandiosity of some palaces, he didn't want kilometers of hallways and tall staircases to get to an exit. He wanted harmony between himself and Nature. Thinking that it wasn't grand enough, his courtiers objected to its low roofline. But, Frederick was the king, and he dismissed their opinions. He was unlike other monarchs who felt compelled to obey their courtiers. Seeing the expanse of his gardens, we understood his reasoning.
After a long and colorful life, Frederick died at age 74. His final wishes were to be buried there with a plain tombstone, but his nephew (the new King Frederik William II) had the corpse entombed in Potsdam's church. During WWII, Hitler had the coffin hidden. The US Army found it. In 1991, it was finally buried at Sanssouci. Visitors leave flowers and potatoes—which he promoted for nutrition—on the modest grave.
To the east, a long building is named the Picture Gallery, but it was closed to visitors after September. It looks like this...
Frederick collected paintings passionately, so he built the gallery in 1755 to share them with his friends.
We walked west and passed the New Chambers, which were erected in 1771 for Frederick's houseguests. That wing also contained the palace's kitchen and coach house. Its hedges were precisely trimmed.
It was also closed at that time of year, but its interior looks like this (decorated with red jasper marble)...
Undaunted by those "seasonal closures", we sauntered "without a care" underneath the historic windmill—which still functions. It is alongside the kitchen garden, which was created in 1715.
We went downhill and entered the gardens of Sanssouci Park. They are included in the UNESCO World Heritage Site, due to their unique 18th-century landscaping. There are 741 acres! Parterre flowerbeds were copied from Versailles.
The Orangery and greenhouses contained hundreds of orange, melon, peach, and banana trees, which were valuable rarities in that era. During summer, the citrus trees were moved outside, and soirées occurred under them. In 1851, an Orangery Palace was built by King Friedrich Wilhelm IV.
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Spanning 300 meters, the "greenhouse" was modeled on the Medici palazzos in Florence, where Italy birthed the Renaissance. *To see our trip to Florence, please use this link:
Akin to what we witnessed in Florence, that structure was also adorned with a shapely male nude statue. The archer's stance has a certain... gayness.
Orangeries were built by posh families in the colonies of North America, too. We saw one from 1808 in New York's Hudson River Valley, and you can view it via this link...
Cheerfully, we traipsed through the arbors that were modeled on the ones at Versailles. Shapes remain unchanged since 1745.
It was a beautiful autumn afternoon! We loved being immersed in the landscape. Exploring the "Hedge Quarter" was amazing; varying paths led off in different directions and joined again at unique angles. 3,000 fruit trees were planted around them. Please enjoy my video of the enchanting scenery...
Under the sunshine, Lewis and I walked along the water channels that became a curvaceous brook. It was serene. We traipsed south to the Chinesisches Haus (Chinese House), which is 700 meters from the palace. As an educated gentleman, Frederick was enthusiastic about Chinese culture—long before Chinoiserie became fashionable in Europe. In 1755, a master-builder named Johann Gottfried Büring applied his speciality of late-Baroque techniques to it. (He also designed the New Palace that we visited next). Frederick used the pavilion for social occasions, and it was shaped like a trefoil, so it had three alcoves.
Glimmering in the sunlight, the gilded sandstone columns were styled by a Swiss sculptor named Johann Kambly to resemble palm trees. They support a copper roof that is made to look like a tent.
Artists in Prussia had never visited China, which was a "world away" during the era of sailing ships. So, they designed the statues based on the illustrations seen in Chinese scrolls. However, the facial features and dragons that they created still have a European flair. Their intention was commendable.
Atop the cupola, a gold-plated Chinese man holds a parasol.
Seemingly transplanted from Imperial China, a huge metal incense burner is nearby. Lewis peeked inside, but nobody uses it for incense.
It is decorated with good luck emblems named swastikas—which derive from the Sanskrit word meaning "conductive well-being". Despite the Nazis perverting them in the 1930-40s, many cultures continue to use those symbols for spirituality and prosperity.
Lewis and I saw them in continuous usage in Japan and India. In Buddhism, the symbol is used to connote the auspicious path of the Buddha. In ancient Mediterranean and Viking societies, it was emblematic of godly might. During our travels, we also spotted them in early Christian artwork. If you research auspicious postcards, posters, or Christmas cards from Europe's prewar era, you will see them used happily.
*To see the ones in India, please use this link:
In 1770, Frederick also erected the Dragon House: a pagoda on the north side of the park. Authentically, its roof is adorned with sixteen dragons to ward off evil. It is now a restaurant. We didn't go there, but it looks like this...
Under the orange and amber-colored leaves of tall trees, we ambled to the New Palace.
The main path stretches for 2.5 km and connects both palaces.
Twenty years after completing Sanssouci, Frederick the Great built the Neues Palais (New Palace) on the western edge of his park. It always retained that name. Using grandiose Baroque style, it demonstrated Prussia newfound power to the world, which scoffed at his "vineyard house". It was a symbol of Prussia's victory after the Seven Years' War: a global conflict involving the Great Powers of Europe, the North American colonies, and Asia. Nonetheless, Frederick never stayed there.
We viewed the rear of the 200-room palace, with a 220-meter breadth. It is awe-inspiring.
The grand lampposts have male statues with well-defined thighs and visible butt cheeks... resembling pole-dancers. Yes, a gay man certainly chose them. :-)
The roof is adorned with 292 statues.
In front of the palace, there is a crescent-shaped Communs. The regal and mammoth structure functioned as homes and workrooms for the servants. We marveled at how nicely Frederick treated his employees; we never saw such a stately residence/dormitory for servants! Seen below, it is now used by the University of Potsdam.
Facing the New Palace again, we were awestruck by its majesty.
Enjoy Lewis' panoramic video of it...
After Frederick's death, the gargantuan space was unused until 1859. First, it became the summer residence of Germany's Crown Prince. When he was crowned as Emperor Frederick III, he made it his primary residence for his 99-day reign. Similar to Britain's Prince Albert, he was a honorable modernizer who sought to improve things, which made the authorities resent him. Also similarly, he died prematurely "from an unstoppable illness". After those influential men died, their nations proceeded with dastardly conquests and violently exploited less-powerful cultures.
The palace remained a favorite of the German imperial family, until they were overthrown in 1918.
Lewis and I arrived at the entrance, but the door was locked. We knocked repeatedly, and an old man came, but he only spoke German. Once again, that was unhelpful at an internationally-recognized tourist attraction. We showed our admission tickets, but he insisted zealously that we needed to go to the Ticket Office that was 500 feet away... and then come back. The two locations are indicated by the red line below.
That was stupidly absurd, but we obeyed. Of course, there are no signs anywhere to inform visitors of the inconvenient procedures when they arrive from Sanssouci Palace. Despite such idiotic unpreparedness, the staff grumble if visitors are late.
After trekking to the Ticket Office, the only thing that those German-speaking employees did was use a machine to stamp our tickets. Nothing more! Why don't they put that portable machine by the palace's entrance?! The old man could've stamped our tickets and made the process convenient. Stupid. Further incompetence was revealed when we were told that the New Palace requires entry via certain time-slots. That was not mentioned on the website; the website indicates that the only building requiring a time-slot is Sanssouci Palace.
Fortunately, the next timed entry was in ten minutes, so we hurried back to the New Palace. As the old man let people enter, an elderly German woman arrived. She was limping, but he sent her away to the Ticket Office. That was a lack of compassion, and visitors shook their heads at the man with disapproval. The old woman complained and limped away; she certainly missed the entry time and had to wait 30 minutes for the next one. That is inhospitable. We are certain that hundreds of visitors are misguided and arrive at the palace before going to the Ticket Office... and we are certain that the old docents get tired from sending them away... but the inconvenience persists unchanged.
The next shock was discovering that we could not explore the interior on our own or at our own pace. Unlike the timed entries at Sanssouci Palace, the ones at New Palace are monitored by tour guides. They only speak in German, which doesn't help foreigners. They keep visitors locked in each room; they unlock a door, usher people inside, and lock the door again. After expounding on the art in that room, they unlock the next door. An unfortunate consequence is that visitors cannot bypass boring rooms or move ahead. Therefore, a visit that we intended to last for 45 minutes was twice as long as we expected!
Seen below, Kaiser Wilhelm II electrified the palace and installed steam heating and an elevator. As Germany's last emperor, he was instrumental in preserving its furnishings to avoid post-WWI looting.
Despite his arrogance for governance, he was a mild-mannered aristocrat. He was born with a deformed left arm, which was short. Indicative of Germany's backwards medical sciences, his doctors endeavored to make it grow by tying rabbit carcasses to it and strapping his body into a cage-like "holder". He endured years of that daily torture. As an adult, he often posed with that arm behind him, due to shame instilled by his family and culture. During Christmases, he filled his pockets with gold coins and strolled through Sanssouci Park, dispensing the coins to random people: gardeners, villagers, children, and sentries.
Alas, German industries galvanized the empire for World War One, and the emperor was expected to promote it with the expectancy of victory.
Historians agree that the war should've ended quickly, but inexplicable delays elongated its trench warfare... as if "behind the scenes" entities vied for more time until they could instigate more issues. Indeed, the war began because Austria's crown-prince was assassinated, but three failed attempts preceded it... yet his authorities seemed unconcerned about protecting him. In fact, on the day of his murder, another failed effort happened. Inexplicably, instead of rushing the prince to safety, his team decided to reverse the entire parade of cars—as if to give the killer another chance. Such machinations remind us of how Europeans fabricated the Boxer Rebellion in China, as an excuse to invade and loot it. (European newspapers reported the "murder" of a German diplomat three days before he was shot).
Consequently, WWI continued for many years and depleted Germany's treasury and patience. Its industries and banks enriched themselves, as did the ones in the USA. When Germany was defeated, its society made the Kaiser into the scapegoat. While he was away in the Kingdom of Belgium, his authorities announced his abdication without his approval.
Seemingly "playing both sides", they told him to stay away "for his own safety", so he sought refuge in the Kingdom of the Netherlands. A rapid change of power ensued, and the monarchy was abolished. Germany's last emperor retired in the Dutch countryside, chopping wood and going for Nature hikes...
...until Hitler's Nazi troops put him "under house arrest" and he suddenly died.
In the 1970s, Netherlandish officials found most of the furnishings from New Palace in their original packing crates (from 1918) that Germany sent to its last emperor. The items were returned to Potsdam.
Our tour commenced in the Grotto Hall. Instantly, we recognized the creative genius of Frederick the Great to use unique materials to make a one-of-a-kind room that was intriguing. Once again, he employed the Swiss craftsman, Johann Kambly. The result resembles a grotto. Its nautical style is achieved with thousands of seashells, iridescent rocks, and semi-precious stones. The walls are covered with them! They are patterned into geometric shapes. Brilliant.
Please enjoy Lewis' close-up video of the craftsmanship...
Our tour guide led us into the Marmorgalerie, adorned with red jasper and white Carrara marble. The frescoed ceiling stretches for the length of two tennis courts.
Mirrors, widows, and entrances are very tall, yet some doorways remind us that humans were shorter in that era.
I admired the zigzag pattern of the parquet floor, which was centuries ahead of the Art Deco era.
Without understanding a word that he said, we followed our guide into the Marble Hall, which sits above the Grotto. It was the ballroom and banquet hall. Built in 1769, its richly-gilded ceiling curves upward for a double-height space. The palace's huge copper dome is above it but not visible.
Near the ballroom, an anteroom represented Frederick's love of Nature and was used by the royal family to have intimate chats.
The master bedroom was big but unremarkable, as were many of the rooms. Abandoning Frederick's stylishness, his successors redecorated most of the rooms with a mediocre sameness that caused us to yawn. Whereas his decor was elegant, colorful, and fanciful, the newer decor looks as if a "stucco and gold-plating machine" exploded. It reminded us of the redundancy at the Pitti Palace in Florence. When dozens of rooms are similarly stuccoed, gilded, and furnished, they become uninteresting. That is also our opinion of Paris' streets: too much uniformity.
*To see another time that we explored a "last emperor's" palace, please use this link: https://halfwindsorfullthrottle.blogspot.com/2014/11/our-trip-to-china-part-i.html
New Palace has a dazzling theatre, but it was not shown to us. (It looks like this)...
We exited through the front, just as the sunset illuminated the facade with a warm glow. We imagine that Frederick was proud of everything that he created in Sanssouci Park.
Departing from the UNESCO site, our thrill was dampened by reoccurring German incompetence.
From the exit, there are no signs to direct visitors to the train station—which is thoughtless and unhelpful. Perhaps the buffoons forgot that visitors might enter from the train station at the east side of the park and exit to the train station on the west side. Perhaps installing signs is too bothersome for Berlin and Brandenburg.
Meandering south—with my partially-functioning Google Maps—we realized that nobody walked with us. Everybody drove cars. It was bizarre that visitors didn't use public transportation. (Maybe they knew about its hassles). We neared a sizable building that looked like a train station...
It was one in the 1910s, but it is now an event space. If you research it online (Google or Wikipedia), it is listed as Postdam Park Sanssouci Station, but that is wrong. In 1905, it was the Kaiser's private station, and his first guests were American President Theodore Roosevelt and Czar Nicholas II of Russia. During the Nazi regime, it contained the "palace train" of Hermann Goring. It is part of the UNESCO site.
After that, we saw train trestles over the road, and we realized that the station was merely a platform up there. Once again, nobody was employed at the station; it was vacant. The entrance to the station's staircase is entirely hidden from the street.
We validated our tickets and checked the Arrivals Schedule. A train was due to arrive in 11 minutes, and we seemed to have plenty of time until we needed to be back in Berlin for an opera that we pre-purchased tickets for. The train ride was only 30 minutes, so everything seemed fine. Not in Germany.
The arriving train was not a Regional one and wasn't going to Berlin. However, we took it east to the station where we arrived at Sansoucci.
I double-checked the train's data, and it said that we could get aboard the RE1 trains at that station, which made sense to me because we got off the RE1 train there when we arrived. However, after we get off at Potsdam Charlottenhof Station, the sign said that RE1 trains only stopped there on the westbound track, when leaving Berlin. That's ridiculous! We couldn't believe it. However, if we got to Potsdam Central Station in 30 minutes, we could definitely catch an RE1 that would get us to Berlin in time for our opera. Had we known that (and ignored the sign on that train), we could've rode the prior train to the Central Station. Agonizingly, the next train was due in 20 minutes. We descended to the street and hoped to see a taxi... which is a reasonable expectation in a first-world city. Considering that Potsdam in the regional capital, it was certainly our expectation. Not in Germany.
As the sky darkened, we stood outside for eight minutes, but no cabs appeared. Why were there no taxis at that train station? Even the dismal stations on New York's suburban Long Island Railroad have taxis. Whether in the suburbs of Nagoya or the rural parts of Denmark, we saw taxis at train stations. But not in the provincial capital of Brandenburg!
We tried to discpher the tram data (which, as you recall, did not include a map), but it didn't mention the Central Station. Lewis didn't want to risk being taken in a wrong direction again. Instead, he asked a man at the delicatessen how to get to the Central Station? The man told us that there were no taxis, but if we walked down the road for one kilometer, we could find them. That seemed ludicrous. The man didn't suggest trams.
Lewis tried to confirm that information with the deli owner, but he didn't speak English. We were one mile from the Central Station. As the sun disappeared, we started walking. The street became a highway.
Seen below, we saw a tall hotel and made a slight detour to see if taxis were waiting outside its lobby. The area was desolate and lacked cabs. We would've had an equal chance finding a taxi in the desert! What is wrong with Potsdam's ability to have taxis?
With increasing frustration, we braced ourselves against the chilly wind and crossed a double-arch vehicular bridge.
Lewis' legs were tired and he doubted our chances of catching the train. Encouraging him, I suddenly saw an entrance for a train station in a shopping center. The sign for the station is easily missed because it is not given prominence over the signs of neighboring stores. Thankfully, I recognized the "DB" logo! In daylight, it looks like this...
We walked a long distance without knowing where the station was. If there was a sign or directory, we didn't see it. Apparently, the German authorities expect you to locate their signs (if signs exists) and not require any reminders as you cross the mall. That is unhelpful.
My eyes were drawn to a guy hurrying with the typical stride of someone going to a train. Instinctively, we followed, and he led us to the station. At the archway into the station, a big Departures Board hung from the ceiling, but it was not visible from the mall's main concourse. If people don't look to the right, they might easily pass the entrance. Seen below, you'll notice an inexplicable lack of Departure signs at each track platform. Unlike other stations in the world, the German authorities expect you to remember what you read on the big one by the entrance. Clearly, adding signs is bothersome for them.
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Despite our speed-walking, we missed the RE1 train! Mercifully, I recognized the S7 Metro route for the S-Bahn, and I remembered that it travelled from Potsdam to Berlin. To be certain, we double-checked with two people on the train. Glad to have a seat, we rode for 45-minutes over 30 kilometers to Berlin.
Accustomed to the delays when we paid for taxis with credit cards (drivers must fetch their credit card reader from a compartment, activate the device, and upload the transaction), Lewis paid with cash. However, he was due €5 back, but the driver—perhaps lying to us because he saw that we were in a hurry to arrive at the opera—said that he didn't have change. How could a taxi driver in the capital NOT have change on a Sunday? Frustrated but helpless, Lewis told him to keep the change, and the man pocketed all the Euros. Comforting Lewis, I reminded him that Karma corrects any wrongs. (Indeed, Lewis received that money back when he bought a snack at a grocery store and it was discounted from its listed price by €5).
Next to the opera house is the national library (bibliothek), built in 1774 by order of King Frederick the Great. As a ruler during the Enlightenment, he wanted his population to nurture their minds and intellects through reading and amassing knowledge, with equal parts of technical skill and pleasure.
The plaza between them has a memorial to the tragically-ignorant Book Burning bonfire that Adolph Hitler and his Nazis created in 1933 to prevent education/awareness. (The opposite of Frederick the Great).
The memorial is a hole in the ground named the Empty Library, circa 1995.
The opera house is painted with a vivacious hue of pink. It daylight, it looks like this...
...but it was illuminated like this, when we arrived...
It is a plush theatre with elegance and refined style.
By royal decree, Frederick the Great commissioned the construction of Berlin's opera house. Once again, he hired Knobelsdorff, and the result is impressive. The classic facade modestly belies the embellishments within. Inside, he designed each tier with different decorations. When it opened, it was one of the longest and widest theaters in the world! Its technical abilities marveled audiences. Alas, it burned down in 1843. Berliners rebuilt it, as seen below...
....but World War Two ended with it getting bombarded. Again, Berliners reconstructed it with Knobelsdorff's specifications, and that is a triumph of historical conservationism and cultural maintenance.
More professional than the docents at the previous six historical sites that we visited, the staff at the opera house facilitated everyone's enjoyment. They behaved perfectly and spoke fluent English. Wearing suit-uniforms, they scanned everyone's e-tickets and efficiently directed them to the correct parts of the theatre. We gave our belongings to the Coat Check as the chimes rang to announce the start of the performance. Perfect timing!
Looking up at the gold medallions on the ceiling, I was reminded of Sanssouci's sun emblems. Frederick left his imprint everywhere. True enlightenment.
The theatre is a living embodiment of his values. It was great for us to experience both places that he created in the same day—and a lovely coincidence!
A young usher escorted us to our seats on the first tier, right side, second row, situated on the end.
It is a plush theatre with elegance and refined style.
For only €32 each, our opera tickets gave us superb seats with a great view of the orchestra and stage! That is impossible in Manhattan. Firstly, most of NYC's theaters are crumbling from neglect, while their greedy owners sell overpriced tickets at three-times the price of Berlin's. Secondly, NYC adds "facility fees" and "processing fees" that accumulate to $20-30 per ticket! Consequently, "going to the theatre" is something that most people must save money to do. In opposition to that, we like societies that value the arts and make them accessible and affordable.
Seen above, we had a superb view of the musicians. Formed nearly 450 years ago, the Staatskapelle Berlin (State Orchestra Berlin) is one of the oldest in the world. It began as the court orchestra for Prince-Elector Joachim II, in 1570. Centuries later, King Frederick the Great assigned it to his newly-made Royal Court Opera. The chorus within the performers was also great. Founded in 1742, the State Opera Choir remains one of the leading choirs in the world. It consists of 84 full-time singers.
The performance was sung in Italian, but overhead screens translated the words into German and English. Based on a French comedy from 1775, The Barber of Seville is a marvelous opera written by Gioacchino Rossini. He was born in 1792, and he composed the masterpiece in 1815. His comedic tale describes a villain trying to marry the girl who is his ward, so he can control her inheritance. He prevents her from having contact with the outside world. The hero is a nobleman who acts in disguise and enlists the aid of a local barber. The cunning barber is a main character.
During the intermission, we went downstairs to the Lounge and purchased two glasses of white wine and a big, soft, salted pretzel. You can't be more German than that, ha ha! It was scrumptious. In the capital of Germany, at Berlin's best opera house, those three items cost 20 Euros, which is less than one glass of sparkling wine at NYC's Lincoln Center: philharmonic, opera, or ballet.
Lewis liked the sleekly-modern set design, while performers wore historic costumes that were appropriate for the era. Centuries ago, Europe's largest specialist for stage equipment, named Hugo Baruch & Company (based in Berlin), fitted the theater. Due to their excellence, they were bestowed with a Royal Warrant as Purveyor to the Royal Court. Royal Warrants signify outstanding quality, and companies aspire for that glitzy recognition. Within the Kingdom of Prussia, a Royal Warrant was also issued as a Hoflieferant Seiner Majestät des König (Purveyor to His Majesty the King).
We enjoyed the opera immensely: witty dialogue, beautiful music, comedic moments, breast-grabbing, swordplay, and a happy ending. We highly recommend that Opera Company whenever you visit Berlin.
Before the majority of theatergoers left their seats, Lewis and I retrieved our things from the Coat Check.
Months ago, I smartly made our dinner reservations at an establishment close to the opera house. Unlike NYC's overhyped Broadway with its plethora of bad restaurants (like leaches), Berlin has many nice ones near its theaters. (Furthermore, NYC's restaurants are unhelpfully snooty and will not accept reservations earlier than 3 weeks). We headed to Gendarmenmarkt (Gendarmerie Market), which is a square named for the gendarmerie that worked there until 1773.
*To see when we encountered a modern gendarmerie in Amsterdam, please use this link:
The square has three beautiful buildings: the 1821 concert hall, and two identical domed churches from 1708: French and German.
During WWII, they were decimated....
... but they were restored gloriously.
*In NYC, irreplaceable historic buildings were never affected by any war, yet the city's greed destroyed all but six structures from the 1700s and more than half of the ornate ones from 1800s.
We wanted to get closer to the square, but access was denied because Berlin was erecting a Christmas Market there. When completed, it will look impressively like this (I wish ours did)...
(Despite possessing hordes of actors, vocalists, and musicians, NYC uncaringly does nothing to open its Christmas Markets. Berlin employs a choir, full orchestra, and costumed performers for the opening of the one at Gendarmenmarkt, and it has carolers and actors during certain nights thereafter).
Fences kept people out of the square, so we walked around the perimeter and entered a bank that was converted into an upscale restaurant named Haupstadtrestaurant Gendarmerie (Capital City Restaurant Gendarmerie). (Do not confuse it with Brasserie Am Gendarmenmarkt, which is owned by the same people and is in the vicinity).
Instantly, an attentive host welcomed us by saying "Guten abend" (Oot-en ah-bent), which means "Good evening". We repeated it perfectly, yet he detected our American accents. Smiling at us, he ushered us to a banquette in the center of the big room. One wall is lined with giant wooden boards, painted with modernist images. The opposite wall features photos of Hollywood actors.
The place was half-full of chatty customers, and an influx of others (probably from the opera) came in after us. Our server was the Head Waiter and seemed like the Dining Room Captain. He oversaw a team of handsome fellows with sweet smiles and black aprons over white shirts. One brought us oven-fresh bread and the creamiest butter. Meanwhile, our waiter inquired if we wanted cocktails or aperitifs? After our struggles to return to Berlin, we gasped "YES!" He chuckled understandingly, and fetched a classic martini for me and a mezcal concoction for Lewis.
Please enjoy Lewis' panoramic video of the interior...
As an appetizer, we were curious to try their Crème brûlée of Foie Gras with walnut bread. The dining room captain explained how the experimental flavors melded nicely. We agreed to try it as something new, and he served it to us with courtesy and élan. Costing €21, it was scrumptious, and the flavor of goose came through the caramelization.
We also ordered a platter of wild-caught red prawns from Argentina: 500 grams that were grilled to perfection. A boyish food runner carried it to our table, and he smartly brought two "sharing plates". Simultaneously, another waiter graciously refilled our water goblets and asked if he could get us anything. We were content, and we respected his question.
Coincidentally, the bottled water that we drank was labeled as Sanssouci! Our waiter confirmed that it's not made there, but it honors the great palace.
We explained to the waitstaff that we were very hungry, since we were deprived of lunch (and walked 8 miles that day). So, our waiter prepared his notepad and pen, and he jotted-down our entire order. Impressed with us, he dutifully used a mise en place tray to arrange our place-settings with the appropriate cutlery. When he was finished laying several forks, knives, and spoons by each of us, we realized that we had a feast coming! Apropos of fine dining, each utensil was shaped uniquely for its purpose: soup spoons, pasta-twirling spoons, fish forks & knives, dinner forks, steak knives, and our meal ended with pastry forks and dessert spoons. Elegant.
Table manners in Germany involve holding the fork in the left hand and the knife in the right. We do that, too, but most Americans obstinately retain the inconvenient method of shifting the fork between the left and right hands. America might be the only country that still does that. Try the easy way.
We are certain that the chefs were impressed with our appreciation of their cultivated menu. As a seafood lover, Lewis indulged in a steamy bowl of Bouillabaisse (a benefit of a French-themed restaurant). Priced at €26, it was chockfull of shellfish, shrimp, and fillets of "noble fish"—seasoned with saffron. We shared it. A smiley busser cleared our table, and he crumbed the tablecloth.
We decided to have a "pasta course", and we shared a portion of Truffle Tagliatelle for €28.
For our main course, I was delighted to see Saddle of Deer on the seasonal menu. I love wild-game, and venison is a favorite. For €45, I received a sizable portion, sautéed with wild mushrooms, broccoli, and meat jus. It was ideal!
Lewis selected €30 roasted Codfish (with perfectly-crispy skin), on a bed of thyme-cream savoy cabbage that was blended with celery mousseline. We ordered a bowl of Brussels Sprouts flavored with bacon, as well as a side of Potatoes au gratin, made with melted Gruyere. They cost €6 each.
From their patisserie menu, we chose Pavlova, which Lewis loves! Priced at €12, it was topped with raspberry sauce, pistachio ice cream, and a "golden berry" that had its shell separated like a finial. The meringue was perfectly crisp yet soft.
As a gift, our Head Waiter gave us glasses of limoncello. It is one of Lewis' preferred digestifs.
Our satisfying meal was priced fairly and worthwhile...
The men thanked us for enjoying their restaurant, and our waiter escorted us outdoors and wished us a pleasant stay in his city. Within minutes, we hailed a taxi, and that cushy Mercedes sped us to our hotel.
Ensconced in our room (apartment), we showered and donned the terrycloth bathrobes. We sipped Ice Wine from the princely family, and it was remarkably delicious. We were happy to watch an episode of the BBC masterpiece, Agatha Christie's Hercule Poirot. We miss having them in the USA.
We dimmed the lights and used switches near the bed to activate the recessed "mood lighting". With the balcony's door ajar, we nestled under the blanket and counted our blessings that outweighed the day's inconvenient challenges.
Join us in the next part!
Guten abend!
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